A Deed to be Done
by Captain Blackbird
Summary: He is alive. Rated PG13 for some violence and language. Chapter 4 is up, I think I'll finish this story on the next chapter
1. Endless Rain

            _Red._

_            Black._

_            White._

_            All the colors are swirling._

_            The pain starts._

Heavy rain pattered down on the streets. A methodical sound that often put one to sleep, or kept one awake. Rain could be your enemy, your friend, your cover or betrayer. Soft droplets giving shine to its home. Heavy nuisance to weigh you down as you try to get to the other side.

            _A sword._

            Black dirt emerges with the rain, making dirty sludge. An enemy of the shoe, a friend of a revengeful soul.

            _The orange line._

            Sounds of the rain hitting the black dirty pavement, a parked car nearby, the wet fur of a stray cat as it streaked for shelter.

            _The sound of a scream._

_            A scream for me?_

A scream.

            Black as night.

            _If I open my eyes, will it be the same?_

Slowly, his eyelids drifted upwards. Miraculously the pieces of water falling to earth avoided hitting his pupils to devilishly make Him blink.

            Yes, there was pain before thought.

            His weak hand lifted and made its way to search for the source. He couldn't tell the difference between the rain and the blood. He lifted the fingers that touched the wound to his eyes sight. He could not see the color on them.

            After He got used to the pain, thought paid at the tollbooth and came through.

            _This is miraculous. How can this be?_

            With what little strength was in Him, He turned over onto his side and then onto his stomach. He coughed and felt wet at the mouth, knowing it not to be rain.

            _This is impossible._

            He pushed the ground with his arms, and rocked back onto his legs, now in a position that you would be before a king, begging for mercy for a crime you did not do. The rain acted as a guillotine, trying pointlessly to shove Him back to the ground, like He belonged there. But He would not fall back down.

            _Who did this?_

He lifted his head and stared out into the rest of the empty alleyway. The skin soaked cat peered out from underneath a sagging cardboard box to catch a glimpse of Him. Short black hair, seeming longer with the rain, fell into his face, trying to be a mask. Through the darkness, the cat couldn't see much more.

            He held out an arm to search for something to help Him up. He found something metal, solid enough to hold the weight He wished to give it. His hand found the top of the dumpster, and He grunted as he pulled himself into almost standing position.

            With both hands on his ally, He stared up at the sky, his black hair falling behind leaving his thin face naked to what little moonlight there was. The cat hissed and scampered away from the gleaming bright blue eyes that met the rain drops.

            The Thin Man was alive.


	2. Remembering

            Despite his rising, the rain didn't let up.

            _My rising doesn't deserve such a treat._

            If you had happened to stumble upon the dark L.A. Theater at that hour, you would have noticed a figure sitting alone in the middle of the stage. His back to you, his face raised to lights that did not shine. Even if he had heard your footsteps in the back of the theater, echoing to his ears, he probably wouldn't have turned. Anthony was in deep thought.

            _I felt it go through…_

He remembered his last moments of life, his life that ended yesterday. His face lined with determination as he fought Seamus O'Grady on the rooftop of the hotel. He knew he was better than him. He knew that easily he could end the Irish man's life. And he succeeded. The rapier had slid easily out of its sheath. It was anxious to feel blood on its blade. His head pounded with determination as he lunged at Seamus. He missed as Seamus had jumped backwards, almost in slow motion. Not like that had slowed the Thin Man down. He brought back his rapier and let it fly again, this time being caught between Seamus' closed hands. Was he praying?

            _You'd better pray._

            Then the rapier left his hands. Seamus lifted it up in attack, but the Thin Man was prepared. He quickly turned a full 180 degrees, brought his arms back, and leaned backwards as his right foot met the Irish man's hard chest. Seamus, rapier in hand, fell backwards over the edge of the building. Fell to his death.

            _You took my love._

His rapier gone, he turned to her.

            _Her._

            His hands filled with her body. She struggled briefly but he held a firm grip on her. Her bronze eyes were wide with fear and confusion as she stared back into his.

            _(Look away, she will be the death of you)_

            So he brought her closer to him, slowly. Time seemed to slow as he embraced the moment, embraced her. The sounds of the fight behind them did not matter now. He placed his hand on her neck behind her ear. He could feel her pulse which slowed to his touch. He could feel soft red hair beneath his fingers.

            _Hair._

Her sweet soft lips moved slightly as she breathed. He knew he had to have them. He had to taste them.

            _(It's your reward you know, you deserve it)_

            He finally closed his eyes as his lips met hers. He was locked into safety by her lips. She locked the door to his insanity. It was a moment he didn't want to end. This angel had somehow lifted him off his feet. He almost opened his eyes to check if they were floating. His fingers curled around the strand of hair that played in his palm. He felt his hand tighten around the lock and he suddenly pulled. She yelled in alarm as he held up his prize. He screamed in delight as he lifted the hair to his face and breathed in the sweet smell. Everything else around him, it wasn't there anymore. As his eyes slowly lifted to see her, he saw that she held a lock of his own hair between her fingers.

            _I didn't feel it though…_

            She lifted it to her face and drew it across her features. A smile appeared as she could feel his sense of peace.

            _(You don't have to be afraid anymore)_

But did she really understand him? He opened his mouth and felt a push of words deep in his throat.

            "Wha…?"

            Her eyes widened as she dropped his hair. She drew closer to him.

            "You're going to say something," she breathed.

            He drew short breaths as he touched her soft cheek. Could he really tell her…?

            Lightning flashed and thunder rang through the theater. Instinctively, the Thin Man brought his hand to his belt, soon realizing that his rapier was gone.

            _He stole her._

The light gradually fell away, leaving only the light of the single candle that he had lit in the middle of the floor. He brought his fingers together so that they wouldn't be able to go and play with the flame.

            He pushed himself to his knees and stared blindly into the darkness ahead. He closed his eyes briefly to imagine a king before him. When he opened them, he was still in darkness.

            _Now what's happened to me?_

His hand slowly came up to his chest. He felt the cloth from his coat and the moisture from the rain…and the blood? He brought his hand behind the silk white button up shirt and felt for something that he couldn't see. His fingers touched something that wasn't meant to be there. But it had to be there. He brought his fingers up to the light and felt the sticky blood between his fingers. A cough rose in his throat and he let it out. He felt the same stickiness in his mouth and he felt more liquid escape between his lips and splatter to the wooden stage.

            The Thin Man rolled his eyes up to look for God. Seeing nothing, he slowly lowered himself chest down on the floor. He felt the cool wood on his cheek, and he found comfort.

            He didn't know if he would wake tomorrow, but the dream maker was calling him.


	3. An Unknown Fetish

It was like Central Park. But it was an entirely different state, wasn't it?

It was all empty, save for a poorly dressed old man that was lying on his back in the wet grass. A single cricket made itself known with its cheerful nightly chirp. The leaves in the trees rustled slightly from the timid wind. A snail slimed its way along the concrete, completely silent.

Anthony sat slumped in a park bench. He paid no attention to the leaves, cricket, or snail. He was staring at the sleeping man intently. He didn't carry an expression of concern, but one of pensive thought.

_You know you want his blood._

Rather the information was what he wanted.

It had been some hours now, waiting on the park bench. It was hard, but no harder than the marble floor of the L.A. Theater. The wooden planks creaked slightly as he moved to a slightly more comfortable position.

It was a strange reaction for one who had just been stabbed through the heart. After a single day he was sitting in a park bench staring at some old man sleeping. He hadn't eaten or walked around aimlessly or prayed to some god for answers. His azure eyes stared unblinking at the sleeping body, as if sending some unspoken message.

The man's head slowly turned to face Anthony, eyes open and awake. The man coughed slightly and sat up, hands now on the dark earth and optics still on Anthony.

"I thought he killed you."

Anthony didn't respond but his eyes blazed evermore.

"Must not have been that hard of a fall. But I must say that 20 stories plus would be a death wish to most."

He answered with silence.

"Still not talkin'?" The bum scoffed and started rummaging around in the dark. Anthony slowly stood up, hand wandering to where his rapier used to be. He was so familiar to the blade but it was gone now.

The rummaging stopped. As Anthony stalked closer, he could see the bum, who had been stuffing things in a big black bag, now staring up at him. A flash of fear went across his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with anger.

"What do YOU want?" he hissed out.

Anthony quickly grabbed the man's dirty collar and pulled him up so he could glare right into his ugly face. He slipped a stiletto from his belt and placed the point beneath the man's chin.

"Ah," the man said shakily. "I know. You want to know where Seamus is."

Anthony's hand shook with anger, almost digging the blade right into his jaw.

"Relax, kid! I stopped workin' for him when he cut my wages last week. This guy I know, he told me where he's residing now. You know the large mansion past the café around the corner?"

He nodded.

"That's where he's supposed to be. You wouldn't mind cutting the bastard's throat for me would you?"

Anthony blinked, giving the appearance of one who hadn't gotten what he asked for. The wind picked up, making his raven hair fly across his face.

"I told you what you wanted, kid, you can let me go now." The bum pulled Anthony's hands off his collar, straightening it. The assassin didn't move as the man picked up his black bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Turned soft, have we?" he said in farewell as he turned into the blackness, walking away silently. Anthony stared after him, and twirling the blade in his fingers, he let it fly into the night. The screech and thump informed him of his direct hit. He heard the black bag fall and items rolling on the cement. He calmly walked up to the fallen body and retrieved his blade from the man's back. He did well to search for some cash as well. Even the wind had died down to drink up the sounds of murder.

Anthony pocketed the money he had found and lifted the blade to his eyesight. There was no light in the park but he could see the dripping blood shining on the metal. It was dripping down the handle and onto his fingers that enclosed it. He sniffed the fresh scent of blood, feeling almost as excited as if he was holding a clump of hair. His tongue met the blade and he tasted the sweet red liquid, feeling the heat go down his throat. Once his blade was clean, he hid it once again behind his belt. He didn't look back at the dead body as he turned around and headed away into the night, the darkness engulfing him.


	4. The Diner

Damn it, he was too early for lunch.

He sat alone at the double booth. It was 6:30 a.m., not another soul within sight excluding behind the counter. Between his fingers was a silver soup spoon. He rubbed the smooth surface, twirling it around each finger, watching his own reflection appear and fade each time it went around. It was mesmerizing, the spoon. With his other hand he rubbed his throat, the burning pain denying the touch.

He knew why it was like that. Again, the last few moments, the last blissful seconds before his death, told him very little but very valuable information.

_"You're going to say something."_

_I was…_

His throat ached to feel words slide past them. But there was nothing to say now.

_Should I ask the waitress why she's taking so long? Should I ask what day it is? Should I comment on one's suit and tie?_

He scoffed to himself. Petty comments like those were exactly why he stayed so silent. There was nothing he needed to say. But that one night…if he had only been given a moment more, his throat would've had the pleasure. _He _had cut him off.

"Here's your tea, Sir."

Anthony looked up at the heavy waitress sharply. She smiled at him weakly, setting a cold glass of iced tea in front of him.

"Are you sure that's all you want?"

Anthony's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before turning his stare down to the glass. He could hear her disappointed sigh, the swish of her dress, and the sounds of her steps walking away.

_Damn whore. You think I don't know what I want?_

_What DO you want?_

He touched the side of the glass, wiping the sweat onto his fingertip and leaving a clear imprint behind. He picked up the glass and took a drink, finally feeling comfort inside his dry throat. Setting his glass down, the words of his other self lingered in his mind.

_What DO you want?_

_I want her. I want her…_

_Well, she's gone, isn't she?_

He tipped the glass over, hearing the shatter of the glass on the hard floor. He heard her bustle over, bending over to clean up the mess. Anything she said wasn't important. He stared out the window, the sky covered with a sheet of grey clouds, whatever sun behind it shining through in starved rays. A light drizzle was likely.

He stood up, ignoring the still stirring woman beside his table. The muffled silence was finally broken as she straightened up to look at him.   
            "You can't go without your tab, Sir." Her eyes were stern. Anthony's own azure beauties tensed at the words. He blinked slowly, his jaw moving to the right and clenching tightly. Her eyebrows creased in confusion, then fell back in fright. Her pink cheeks went red and she looked at the floor, her arms shaking slightly. She stepped away, mumbling once more.

He glided across the floor, the diner still empty of customers and the remaining small pieces of the broken glass hiding under the table, ones she had missed. He pressed out the door, not feeling the slight chill. Cold cannot feel cold.

His dark shoes made soft taps on the pavement. They were alone. Cold was alone. If that sword had still been there, this walk would've been impossible. The minutes stretched into longer, indefinite measures of time. Time must've passed, otherwise the mansion wouldn't have loomed before his person. His walking slowed to a stop, his eyes wandering over the premises, his lips shutting closed in focus. A streak of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder did not make him jump.

_He's in there._

He shifted his feet a little.

_She's in there._

One hand felt the inside of his pants pocket for some comfort. His other touched the hilt of the blade behind his belt.

_Go get what you want. Finish this._

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, looking behind him once, and then walked towards the manor.


End file.
